


Synonyms for Ersatz

by quooze



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Sora/Riku, More characters and pairings will be added as they appear, Pre-Kingdom Hearts III, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, ambiguous timeline placement, two sad boys learn to feel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quooze/pseuds/quooze
Summary: One boy wears a mask, tinted and hollow.  The other hides behind thick walls and false bravado.  They are not people, they are not human.  Their faces are stolen, their bodies made of blood and bones and flesh and wholly devoid of anything genuine.But flowers grow in places they shouldn't.  So perhaps there's hope for them yet.





	1. Encounter, Side A

There is one downside to sunsets, and it’s that they’re very distracting.

The sun drifts close to the horizon, and in the shade a masked boy soaks in the atmosphere. One foot on the ground, one against the wall, arms at his sides with his hands on his hips. He absently clicks his teeth together and stares forward, unblinking. He rests against the wall as lazily now as he had been an hour ago. He’s lost in thought, watching the ambient light around him shift from buttery yellow to a caramel orange.

His thoughts are saturated with his master, his master’s plans, and the growing apathy he feels for the man. Xehanort had breathed life into him and now commands him as apprentice and vessel toward a goal he claims will benefit all those who reside in the light, in the dark, and the in between. A goal which would usher in a new era of existence rooted in purity.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts with a sigh, pushing himself off the wall to stand straight. Part of reaching that goal requires him to do Xehanort’s dirty work, and, as it stands, he’s been avoiding doing that for a solid couple of hours, preferring to crouch in the shade and watch the world turn. 

Probably ought to appease the Old Man. Probably.

He looks to his left and then to his right as he walks through shadowed alleys, straying away from busy streets and the eyes of this world’s inhabitants. From a personal standpoint, he doesn’t want to deal with people giving him looks and unsolicited remarks because of his tinted helmet and black coat. From a practical standpoint, he needs to stay as far away from the light as possible, lest he attract lethal attention.

Nevertheless, this town is kind of nice. Relaxing, on the quiet side today, sunset playfully weaving between the gaps in buildings to sparkle against stucco and brick. It’s rather gorgeous, he thinks, the way the sky burns with citrus hues and soothes the eyes with clouds of cream. Hearing voices, he slinks around another sharp corner. He empties his mind as he navigates through the maze of back streets with his eyes skyward, vision occasionally bisected with a set of fluttering curtains or laundry hung out to dry. Distracting.

Needless to say, he almost misses the crack in the wall that Xehanort told him to find. He comes to the mouth of the alley where it spills into an open section of road, train tracks tucked within deep red brick that curves around a series of large buildings. Across the way is a wall that separates the town from a deep forest. Somewhere inside that forest exists his target, a mansion Xehanort had instructed him to find but not to enter.

Vanitas scans the area for unwanted company, lips drawn in a thin line, eyes squinted, and sprints to the gap in the wall, ducking inside until he’s met with towering redwoods.

He passes over thick roots and uneven earth. The sun is unable to penetrate the denseness of the trees, only managing a flicker here and there. He wanders for quite some time, soaking in the darkness and seeking any sign of the mansion. He quickens his pace and presses on.

The trees begin to thin out and a small hill appears before him, the sky darkening above. Vanitas saunters up, seeing the top of a building and a gate peek out from the other side of the hill. He sighs and licks his lips. As he nears the top, he wonders what his master sent him to find. Perhaps he simply needed to confirm the existence of this location. Maybe there’s something just outside the mansion he’ll need to report about. Maybe there’s nothing and Xehanort’s just an ass.

Vanitas does not expect to find anything in front of the gate, much less a body.

He stands still, a handful of yards away. He swallows, eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side. The body is curled around itself, legs drawn up and arms wrapped around its head. It looks like a pile of dark tendrils wearing boots, which elicits a low hum of amusement.

The body twitches and moves, legs stretching out, hands blindly groping the ground.

Void Gear flashes into Vanitas’s hand.

He sees the body, person, raise up onto an elbow before falling back down. Long silver hair captures his gaze, and the dark tendrils become an all-too-familiar bodysuit. The figure once again raises up onto an elbow, and their body turns toward Vanitas. With his keyblade raised above his head, he braces for the conflict that threatens to ensue. The person raises their head to look at Vanitas, eyes wide, mouth agape.

Vanitas has never seen eyes so sharp. He draws in a breath and does not release it.

He stares at the figure and the figure stares back, both unmoving, both unsure what to do.

“Where,” the figure speaks, voice deep with a sandpaper edge, “where are, no, why… why am I here?”

Vanitas exhales, and Void Gear wavers.

“Don’t really think I can answer that for you, maybe you can tell me who you are?”

The boy’s eyebrows twitch in frustration and his jaw tightens as he swings his legs around to sit facing Vanitas properly.

“I’m not important. Who are you?”

“Also not important,” he dispatches his keyblade with a wave of his hand and crosses his arms, running his tongue over his teeth. This boy doesn’t strike him as a threat.

“Huh.”

Silence. Tension. It extends for a solid moment, thickening the air. Vanitas doesn’t take his eyes off the boy, and neither does the boy take his off Vanitas. They are not staring each other down, however. Vanitas tries to read the boy in front of him. His voice is raspy, he has bags under his eyes, he absolutely reeks of darkness. Vanitas isn’t entirely sure what to make of him, all weak, pitiful, even. The boy looks at Vanitas as if he needs answers to questions he doesn’t understand well enough to ask.

During their pause, Vanitas tears his gaze away from the boy to look around at the grounds. Within the gate he sees a few meek Shadows appearing and reappearing, aimless and fragile. A heaviness in the air indicates something larger and stronger may lie within the confines of the mansion, but without going inside, that’s all he’s going to be able to report.

The boy swallows and breaks the silence.

“This is Twilight Town, isn’t it?” he asks, hesitation in his voice.

“That’s right.”

“I see, figures,” he says, wry smile gracing his lips. He looks away from Vanitas, eyes in the clouds. “I think I know why I’m here, but why are you here? You’re not a Nobody.”

Interesting.

“I’m here for business, and I got what I came for.”

Vanitas turns and opens a Dark Corridor before the boy can say anything more. He does not look back as he enters it. Must admit he considers it, wanting one last glance at unkempt silver hair.

Whatever Master Xehanort wanted out of this venture, Vanitas is sure to keep the mystery boy out of his report. This mission was short and sweet, and he has no intentions of sharing the unexpected cherry on top.

“I take it you completed my task, Vanitas?” Xehanort folds his arms behind his back, turned away from the boy.

“I did,” Vanitas replies, voice cold, as he leans against a metallic wall, staring at the floor.

“And what did you find there?” He turns his body to look back at the boy, dark smile on his face.

“Nothing important. The mansion is crawling with darkness, but that’s it.”

Xehanort straightens his back and gives him a curious hum.

“You’re dismissed, Vanitas.”

And he vanishes through a Dark Corridor, leaving Vanitas alone. He lifts his head to look out the window at the dark sky outside. Red and blue smoke taints the black void in carefree spirals. He turns to stare again at the floor, at the walls, at the silver metal plates inlaid within shiny white. Every part of this castle is like that, sterile in aura and chaotic in design. He huffs out a sigh and walks out into a vast, open walkway, chewing the inside of his cheek. Everything is haphazard in this castle, everything from the strange designs in the walls to the way blocks and pillars and empty space intersect to create unsettling visuals. All that separates him now from an endless drop to the ground floor is a short glass rail. Godawful.

This very world bleeds darkness, and even though darkness comforts Vanitas, this brand of it numbs him in all the wrong ways. As he walks through the halls, he looks out to the dark sky and almost misses the peaches and cream of Twilight Town. And as he thinks of Twilight Town, he thinks of that boy. Bodysuit so like his own, aqua eyes so unlike his own. He catches a glimpse of himself in the window, of his helmet as he lets the face plate disintegrate. He looks into his amber eyes and his brows furrow, his teeth grinding.

The name of that boy is on the tip of his tongue, just far enough from his lips that he can’t will his mouth to speak it.


	2. Encounter, Side B

He wakes up to cold grass and blurry vision. He can’t feel his limbs, can’t will his body to move. Every breath pains his ribcage, and every exhale a chore. He curls on himself weakly, moving from his stomach to his side at an agonizing pace. His arms are clamped tightly over his face and he blinks once, twice, thrice. There’s a breeze.

Blink.

He has feet. He kicks one and swallows. He can make out the grass in front of him, and what looks to be a building.

Blink.

His fingers twitch. He lifts his head a fraction of an inch.

Blink.

He turns his head to his left and makes eye contact with the sky. It’s brilliant, bright. His lips fall open and he curls his legs up toward his chest, hands out in front of him. It’s chilly out here but at least his chest doesn’t hurt when he breathes anymore. He curls up tighter and blinks a few more times, and while everything is still blurry, familiarity washes over him as he turns his head once again to peer at the building. A mansion, that’s what it is, a mansion peppered with statues and hedges.

The ground stings with cold as he lays there motionless. Reality has not settled in his mind, he’s unsure of this is a dream, or if it’s his body’s final attempt to preserve itself. He recalls black smoke, of his own voice speaking to him. He fails to remember the words, but phantom vibrations in his throat remind him he spoke then, too.

His eyes fall closed and as he curls back around himself, arms over his eyes, he fades back into darkness.

Sounds and awareness slip away, and sleep cocoons the boy in numbing sheets. His breathing evens out, almost to a stop. Maybe it does stop. He wouldn’t know.

Everything goes quiet, and all is still.

And then…

And then he’s not alone. His nostrils fill with air and he awakens, senses flooding his brain. He unfurls and lifts his body up, his arm giving out which sends him crashing back into the grass. He tries once more, and when he turns his body to look behind him, the shadowy figure standing a few feet away fills his chest with hot spikes.

Black coat. No face. Stench of darkness thick in the air.

Memories flit through his mind’s eye, of condescending voices, of open palms and clenched fists aimed at his jaw, of shrill laughter. Fear.

He can see his reflection in the mask of the figure.

He is so, so afraid, and in his fear, he begins to babble.

“Where, where are, no, why… why am I here?”

Did this person summon him from the depths of whatever darkness he faded into? He remembers now, dying in this very spot, or a spot resembling this one.

“Don’t really think I can answer that for you, maybe you can tell me who you are?”

Ah, right. He died here at the hands of his original. He’s just a fake, a boy made in a lab with a stolen face. His blood boils as the essence of his existence slides to the forefront of his mind. He turns to the boy, tempering his rising anger.

“I’m not important. Who are you?”

“Also not important.” The boy has put away his weapon, a keyblade. He’s not a Nobody, then, or at least not one he’s ever come across before. He runs through a list of all the Nobodies he ever met, contempt filling his lungs with lead. He doesn’t smell like them, no. He looks up at the boy, slouching forward.

“Huh.”

Somehow, he’s sure this boy isn’t one of them. He’s wearing their coat, but he’s not one of them. He’s… something, alright. But not a Nobody. He wets his lips and swallows.

“This is Twilight Town, isn’t it?” he doesn’t know why he asked that, he knows exactly where he is. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to make small talk.

“That’s right.” Oh, boy. This is awkward.

“I see, figures,” he feels like an idiot and looks away into the sky. He’s not even sure why he feels like an idiot, or why he cares so much about making a fool of himself. It briefly occurs to him that this boy probably doesn’t know he’d been here before, which soothes his nerves a bit. “I think I know why I’m here, but why are you here? You’re not a Nobody.”

The boy stiffens.

“I’m here for business, and I got what I came for.”

The boy opens a portal and briskly walks into it.

And now he’s alone again.

Riku stares at the space the boy left behind and scratches the back of his head, puzzled, to say the least. That guy didn’t smell like a Nobody, and he figures if he were a Nobody he would have known who Riku is and would have tried to kill him. He half-grimaces, half-smiles at the thought. He’s a mistake, a fake with no purpose existing. But something in this world brought him back from the abyss. Why? Why is he awake again, allowed to breathe and suffer again?

The replica stands up on weak legs, and surveys his surroundings. He sees the mansion and the forest, all familiar to him. He has no cards on his person, so this is definitely the real Twilight Town, not the fabricated one from Castle Oblivion. He looks down at his legs and wills his body to take a step forward. He succeeds, and he begins to walk into the forest before stopping. He can’t be seen like this, in a bodysuit made of darkness. He closes his eyes and focuses his mind on his arms and chest and then down through his legs, the muscular strands of the bodysuit ripping apart and falling away into wisps that dissipate in the air. In its place, a yellow tank top and blue fishing pants. All of which cling to his skin far too tightly. There’s no time to worry about why he’s here, alive. Right now he needs to worry about how he’s going to manage.

First thing’s first: Buying new clothes.

He pinches the bridge of his nose before inhaling sharply, exhaling sharper, and trekking into the woods. At least his shoes still fit him.

His walk through the woods isn’t unpleasant by any means. Riku stumbles quite a bit, legs still getting used to walking again, and the shade is a security blanket of sorts, wrapping him in cool comfort. Were it not for his uncomfortable clothes and a looming, vague worry, he could have been enjoying himself. But his mind is clogged with questions and his body itchy, too much at once. He scratches at a spot under his ribs, licking his lips. The trees grow denser the more he walks, and now he worries he’s lost. Great. Barely alive for an hour and he’s already squandered it.

He walks for what feels like an hour but is closer to ten minutes before he finds a wall with a peculiar hole smashed out of it. He approaches with the utmost caution, looking into it to find a road and a spattering of buildings. The setup is organic compared to the artificial layout from within Castle Oblivion, the area so much more open, lively. There are people meandering the streets, and the sunlight dances over them. It occurs to Riku he’s never seen actual sunlight before, and as he leans through the hole to enter the city, he has to stop himself from staring.

Riku’s eyes are wide, entire body turning this way and that to soak in the sights. The Twilight Town he knows didn’t have people, nor shops, nor anything but Heartless. He passes under a skybridge and into a square dotted with shops. Something in the air smells delicious, and his stomach rumbles. He checks his pockets, sifts through the munny he has on him, and determines if he’s extra savvy, he can perhaps afford food.

A clothing store is on his left, and he sets his jaw and beelines for it. The shopkeeper greets him, to which he nods nervously in return. He ambles his way through the racks, trying to conjure up any relevant memories of his original that might assist him in this endeavor. He knows what size shirt he takes, but pants are another thing entirely. He sifts through pairs and pairs of them, frustrated confusion settling in the pit of his stomach. He grabs a pair, holds the waistband up to his hips, and determines they’ll work for now. They’re blue and cinched at the ankles. He quite likes them.

He then settles on a modest grey jacket with thick yellow stripes down its sides and arms, and a plain yellow tee. Definitely not experimenting with a new color scheme, he notices. The jacket is soft, on the light side, and the shirt is a size up from what he ought to wear, but he’s never been able to prioritize comfort and he’s not about to let the opportunity slip away. 

He hauls his findings to the counter, and the shopkeeper makes a half-assed attempt at small talk that Riku doesn’t bother engaging. His total is lower than expected, but it makes a sizeable dent in his funds. He’s not even sure why he had munny on him in the first place, though he figures it has something to do with the original Riku’s state at the time he was created. Whatever munny the original had on him, Riku’s creator included it in his “data collection.”

His stomach rumbles again as he takes his clothes into a changing stall and peels the old ones off. He doesn’t have enough munny left over for food, but he’ll survive.

Determination fills his chest as he walks back through the streets to the crack in the wall, ducking through it and trekking back through the sea of trees. More familiar with the path this time, he navigates the shadows with relative ease, coming up on the hill to the mansion in less time than before. He swallows, marching up the incline, old clothes in hand. His body feels hot for a moment as he slows to a stop in front of the gates.

Shadows lurk on the other side of the gate. He watches them for a moment, holding the tip of his tongue between his teeth. 

He holds out his clothes and studies them. They remind him of his original, full of the same white-hot anger that fills his own veins and yet cowardly in his actions. Riku isn’t sure how long it’s been since the real Riku watched him die, isn’t sure where the boy is nor what he’s doing, nor if he was even strong enough to last this long. Leagues of differences separate one Riku from the other, and the replica scoffs.

He ignites his old clothes with purple fire. They turn to ashes in his hands, flesh unmarred by the flames that skitter and snake up his arms. The Shadows fade into the earth and hide away behind the mansion at the sight of it.

He closes his eyes, arms falling to his sides, and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles*
> 
> I haven't seriously written anything since 2008, so here goes nothing!


End file.
